


In Darkness

by Elvesliketrees



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Hurt!Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Poor Athos, Torture, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvesliketrees/pseuds/Elvesliketrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the kink meme Round 1: Someone has been sending Musketeers letters- vile taunts filled with threats against their Leader. A defensive perimeter is set up around Treville- his watch is constant and alert. </p>
<p>Unfortunately, the threat wasn't actually against Treville. It was against his Lieutenant, Athos.</p>
<p>A.K.A. where a fight with the Red Guards has them out for revenge against Athos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, another kink fill! Hope you enjoy this one! Warning for a pretty good amount of torture in this one!

          Porthos growled low as he opened the missive that had been delivered to the Captain. “That’s the fifth this week,” he growled.

          “Another threat then?” Treville asked.

          “Yeah,” Porthos sighed.

          “We’ll increase your guard,” Athos said.

          “If we increase my bloody guard again, I’ll never have room to breathe!” Treville cried.

          “And they won’t have room to shoot you,” Aramis replied with a raised eyebrow. Treville sighed.

          “Do we have any idea what could have spurred this on?” Treville sighed.

          “The only thing of note was the fight a little over a week ago,” Athos said quietly. Treville remembered it well. Eight Red Guards had been drinking at a tavern and had attacked Athos and two new recruits as they were on patrol. The recruits and seven of the guardsmen had not survived the encounter. The Cardinal was apoplectic, demanding that Athos be punished for “instigating” the fight. The king had denied his request, for once, and no blame had been shouldered. Athos had reported that the survivor, who had been a good friend to all seven of the dead guards, was incredibly angered by the result of the encounter. No, the only one who would have been threatened by that would have been Athos. Instead, missives had been delivered to the garrison. While not addressed, most missives that entered the garrison were for the captain, unless they were specifically addressed. That night, Athos returned home, while Porthos and Aramis sat playing cards and talking quietly as they sat at a table in front of his quarters. When the sun rose that morning, Porthos and Aramis left to return home and sleep. When they came running up the stairs and burst into his office, he jumped up.

          “The letters, they weren’t threatenin’ ya,” Porthos panted.

          “Then who?” Treville demanded.

          “We found this nailed to our door,” Aramis stated, speaking of the quarters they shared. He set Athos’ hat on the table, and nailed to it was a note.

          “You lose,” Treville read. “I want every man available searching, we _will_ find him gentlemen!”

Three days later*

          Athos blinked his eyes open and wished he hadn’t. The shredded pieces of his clothing, too numerous and scattered to count, lay off to his right. His throat throbbed from the collar that they had fastened around his neck and chained to the wall, truly making him the dog they called him. His mouth was no longer a dry wasteland, thank God. He’d begged and begged for water, and they’d relented in the most horrible way possible. A rag had been spread over his face, and bucket upon bucket of freezing water had been dumped on it. They’d pull off the suffocating device only long enough for him to catch a few gasped breathes and possibly a plea for it to end. They had not stopped when he had succumbed to the lingering darkness. Both of his hands were numb, broken not long after he had been dragged into the sparsely lit room, bound, blindfolded, and gagged. His body was covered in bruises, results of the kicks and punches they had given him, all in the name of their dead comrades. His hair had been hacked off with a dull knife, and all that remained were little tufts about his head. He shivered in the cool room and curled closer in on himself, praying that they hadn’t seen the shivers, but then realizing that the room was empty. They’d “helped” him with his shivers, and not a place on his body wasn’t aching from the searing burns of the hot poker they’d placed against his skin. He eyed a plate they’d set down for him longingly, but knew that he mustn’t try and reach for it. The bastards had placed it _just_ out of reach; a delicious looking piece of bread, and a small hunk of cheese. He’d spent what felt like hours choking himself, just in order to have his fingers stretch the few extra inches that he was sure would allow him to reach the plate. All this, all this for seven dead guardsmen and a mad desire for vengeance. He’d prayed for his lovers to come find him, to burst into the door and scare his demons away, but it had not happened. Porthos and Aramis had not come, and there was no rescue. A few tears leaked out from his trembling eyelids, and he sniffled. Just then, he heard jeering voices and footsteps near the room. The men entered the room, and they all smiled when they saw his open eyes.

         “Not hungry?” one laughed. He tried not to give any sign of his hunger, his all-consuming hunger, but a whimper slid past his lips.

         “Poor dog,” another cooed, “Can’t reach his scraps!” In a fit of rage, rage at being tortured for absolutely nothing, Athos leapt at the man. “How dare you!” he cried, “You forget what you are a dog, the Musketeer’s dog!” With that, the leader, the survivor of the attack, sneered.

         “Then we must make sure that he doesn’t forget,” he said lightly. With that, he drew his main gauche, and strong arms held him down. After he was done cutting, the kicks and punches began once more. When they finally left with sneers and teasing remarks, he looked at his left arm. It was twisted awkwardly, and he felt he would be sick when he saw the white bone sticking out of it. He looked down at his chest and began to sob. In bloody letters, atop of a bloody fleur-de-lis, was the word “dog”. He curled up in a ball of pain, and tried to dream of happy thoughts and his lovers. His mind began to feel fuzzy, and he welcomed the reprieve from the pain. He did not hear the gunshots and the panicked cries of Porthos and Aramis.

         Porthos raced down the hall towards the chained doors, a panting Aramis on his heels. He kicked at the wood, and the door came apart with a crash. Leaping into the room, Porthos felt the urge to sob, and then kill the bastards who’d done this. Athos was curled up in the corner, and it seemed that his lover’s body was one big bruise, and his left arm was twisted awkwardly. He was curled up in a ball, his hands clutched against his chest, and he was clad only in his braes. Porthos tucked his cloak tightly around him, and then felt sick when he heard the clank of chains. He saw the collar around Athos’ throat, and he clenched his hands in fury. He set about picking the lock while Aramis ghosted his hands over too many injuries to count, muttering to himself. He heard Aramis hiccup out a sob, and he looked down with horror to see that words had been cut into Athos’ chest. He gave out a growl deep in his throat, and Aramis placed a restraining hand on his arm. With a breathy sigh, he picked the lock and wrenched the collar from Athos’ throat, tossing it across the room. He scooped Athos up into his arms and told Aramis to run for the surgeon.

         When Athos awoke once more, he was somewhat surprised. Perhaps they meant to keep him alive after all, continue their horrific game. However, he knew that he was not in the same position as he had been left. For one, he was lying on something wonderfully soft. He was no longer in his undergarments, he had been clothed in soft clothes, and something soft and wonderful was under his head. A little shifting found that he was swaddled in soft coverings, coverings which stretched all the way up to his chin. He tried to move his left arm, only to find it strapped to his chest. Everything hurt, and something was still wrapped around his throat. This was all a trick, a cruel trick by his captors! His eyes flew open, and he thrashed around with gasping cries. He heard two startled noises from somewhere, but he didn’t pay attention. He found himself falling, landing on the hard ground, and he scrambled to get away. He was almost to his feet when two arms, strong as iron bands, wrapped around his chest. With a scream, he thrashed anew in the hold of his captor. He heard a deep voice yelling, but his panic had gone too far in his mind to recognize it.

        “Do somethin’, he’s gonna hurt ‘imself!” the voice bellowed. Athos’ jaws were forced open, and a sour liquid was poured down his throat. His body relaxed, and strong arms caught him as his tired legs gave out. He could have sworn that the same voice was whispering soothing nothings in his ear whilst he fell asleep.

        When he awoke the second time, he was back on the soft thing. Blinking open his eyes, he saw that he was in bed, numerous blankets wrapped tightly around him and a pillow under his head. He was stunned to realize that he was in a place he knew well. He was home! He twisted his head to the right, and a tear of joy slipped down his cheek as he beheld Porthos and Aramis asleep in nest of blankets in front of the fire. He looked to the table by the bed, and his mouth watered when he saw the bread and cheese by the bed. Licking his lips, he reached out the hand that wasn’t strapped down, only to see that his hand was lined with splints. He tried to inch closer towards the food, only to be stopped by the pain. He sobbed, and he flinched when Porthos shot up and fairly raced towards the bed. “Oh love!” he breathed, “Thank God you’re awake!” Athos gave him a small smile, and a cup of wonderfully cool water was brought to his lips. Aramis reached out for Porthos, only to find the space empty. He sat up with a yawn, only to find Athos propped up against numerous pillows and Porthos spooning broth into his mouth. Once the broth was finished, Aramis began to check his lover’s bandages. Athos looked down, only to behold the word and symbol cut onto his chest. A sob welled up in his throat, and Athos soon felt arms circle around him. Porthos ran a hand through his short hair, and he crooned when Athos’ sobs only grew harder. “It’s alright love, let it out, it’s over, you’re alright,” Porthos whispered as he began to rock him gently. The bandages were retied after a moment, and Aramis soon encircled him from the front. The sobs were eventually quieted, leaving Athos shaking and vulnerable.

        “Hush now love, we have you, it’s alright,” Aramis whispered. Athos whimpered, and Porthos only tightened his hold. “Alright, I think it’s time you rested,” Aramis whispered. Porthos made to put him down, only for Athos to paw at his shirt pathetically with his splinted hand, a desperate whine coming from deep within him.

        “Shush, we’ll not leave you,” Porthos crooned. He settled himself back against the pillows, Athos cradled lovingly in his arms. He lay flat on his belly on top of Porthos, and he lay his head on his chest. A large hand carded through his hair while another rubbed his back soothingly, carefully avoiding his injuries. Aramis mouthed kisses on any part of skin that wasn’t injured, and though the cuts throbbed as he lay on them, Athos drifted off to sleep knowing there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. Safe in the arms of his lovers, Aramis’ arm thrown protectively over his back and Porthos’ arms around him like a cradle, he slept.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
